


the art of folding a handkerchief

by Emlee_J



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Feelings Realization, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform, Manga Spoilers, Pro Volleyball Player Bokuto Koutarou, Pro Volleyball Player Hinata Shouyou, Pro Volleyball Player Miya Atsumu, established Kagehina, mentioned bokuaka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24551422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emlee_J/pseuds/Emlee_J
Summary: “Atsumu-san’s just realised he likes Sakusa-san,” Shouyou says simply, as though announcing the weather.“Ahh,”Bokuto nods sagely, standing up straight and nodding his head, as though this was a perfectly normal thing to hear and not monumental in any way.“'Ahh?'”Atsumu protests, indignantly, “what do ya mean‘ahh?’”“We were wondering when you were going to notice,” Bokuto shrugs, and Atsumu gawps at him.“'Scuse me?”He splutters, and whips his gaze around to Shouyou, who bobs his head at him in confirmation.“How did you two notice beforeIdid?” Atsumu blurts out."Most people do," Shouyou says softly.-In which Atsumu develops something annoying, like feelings for a teammate, but at least he has a couple of wingmen and Tobio's seemingly infinite resources to help him out.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 52
Kudos: 1670





	the art of folding a handkerchief

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday court!!!

Atsumu’s eyes snap open in the middle of the night, jolted awake by the sudden end to a dream he’d rather forget.

He lies there, under starchy hotel sheets, and stares up at the ceiling, unblinking, waiting for the remnants of the dream to fade away again so that he can go the fuck back to sleep.

The dream doesn’t leave.

Scowling furiously, he throws his head to the side to shoot daggers at the man – and dream subject – who occupies the room’s second bed.

Sakusa Kiyoomi lies there, on his bed with his arms resting on top of the sheets and his hands folded like he’s in a coffin or something, completely fast asleep. He’s wearing an eye mask. And ear buds. And probably a mouth guard too, judging by the case on the nightstand next to his bed.

It’s all somehow very endearing and also equally utterly infuriating.

Atsumu glowers at Kiyoomi for a few more minutes, trying to connect dream-Omi with real-Omi. The dots connect horribly and he thumps his arms against the bedding in a sulk. Rolling over viciously, the sheets crinkling as he turns, he lies on his side, back to his teammate and forces his eyes shut.

The thing is, this wasn’t the first time this had happened – waking up after a… _disconcertingly pleasant_ dream, that is. 

Nor was it the second. Or the third. Or the-

Atsumu’s eyes squint open again in deep frustration. Once again, he wonders why life has chosen to bully him, specifically, into losing out on sleep. They had an away game in the morning. This wasn’t _fair._

Another couple more minutes pass of a storm cloud rolling around in Atsumu’s head, with no signs of sleep coming, before he sighs dramatically, and flings the bed covers off him. There’s no need to be quiet, Kiyoomi’s ear buds block out all noise except for the specific chime of his alarm clock. Rolling out of bed and onto his feet in one smooth motion, Atsumu all but stomps from the shared bedroom to the small living area.

The hotel they were staying in for their game in Osaka was fairly nice – two teammates to a room, with spacious beds and a large bathroom. Each room came with a small living space too – with a television, small couch and a table with two chairs, so that there was plenty of space. 

Storming past the living area, grabbing one of the room’s card keys from the table as he goes, he makes for the door. Shoving his feet into the hotel provided slippers, he flings open the door and lets it swing closed behind him, shuffling down the corridor. 

Stopping outside the next room down, he lifts a fist, pauses, before throwing caution to the wind and knocking. Just loud enough that the occupants should hear, but hopefully not enough to wake up the rest of their team (or Meian, more importantly.)

He stands there, fidgeting impatiently, and hopes fervently that the _right_ teammate answers the door.

There’s a long pause, where he contemplates rapping his knuckles against the door again, when sounds emanate from behind the wood. Some shuffling, a muffled yawn, and then the door creaks open slowly.

Shouyou stands there in the doorway, squinting at him blearily and rubbing the heel of his palm against one eye. “Atsumu-san?” He mumbles, confused.

“Evenin’,” Atsumu grunts. “I need to ask you somethin'.”

Shouyou blinks at him, slow and confused, letting his hand drop and opening the door a little wider. Atsumu takes this as his cue and steps through the door, all but bullying his way into his teammate’s room. A quick glance around reassures him the room’s other occupant is still asleep, and, satisfied, he slopes forwards and flops into one of the chairs sitting by the table that was identical to one in his own room. 

“Is everything okay?” Shouyou asks, voice low, as he pads over to join him, slipping into the opposite chair. His bed hair is astounding, Atsumu notes, as the spiker leans his elbows on the table and cracks another yawn. “It’s three in the morning…”

“I know,” Atsumu mutters bitterly. He too would like to go back to sleep. “I just to ask you somethin', then I’ll get outta ya hair.” Which he eyes with the smallest sliver of amusement.

“Okay…” Shouyou mumbles, running a hand through the orange mess and somehow rumpling it even further. He blinks a couple more times, and the sleepy haze across his eyes clears. It’s always a little bit disconcerting how quickly Shouyou can reach full alertness once he wakes up. He could probably go for a run right now, if he wanted to. “What’s wrong?”

Atsumu bristles a little at the turn of phrase, but those big brown eyes watch him patiently, and he blows out an annoyed breath, scuffing his slipper across the carpeted floor. There were a few reasons he’d gone to Shouyou for this, after all, and one of those was the younger man’s uncanny ability to see through to the problem at hand remarkably quickly. It sure saved him time explaining himself when Shouyou saw it all with those deceptive eyes of his. 

“You and Tobio-kun,” he grunts out eventually, after a moment’s pause, and licks his lips. Now he’s actually sitting here, the question he wants to ask sounds awfully personal, but… Shouyou cocks his head at him, intrigued, and he barrels on. The spiker isn’t one to get offended easily. “When you realised you…” he sits up a little in his seat and drags his palms across the table, figuring out the words in his head. “When you realised you lo- _liked_ him, how was that?”

“How… was it?” Shouyou repeats, baffled.

“Yeah,” Atsumu grunts, going for a nonchalant shrug. “How quickly did ya go from feelin’ terrible to somewhat okay about it?”

“I didn’t feel terrible about it, though?” Shouyou replies, still confused. 

“Huh?”

“It was pretty great, to be honest,” the other man says, and a smaller version of that bright grin splits across his face. “Sure solved a lot of problems! Why do you ask?”

Atsumu flounders at the happy, open expression on his teammate’s face, and then folds his arms in a sulk. Of course. He should’ve known. Shouyou and Tobio were like a walking Disney film sometimes, of course there wasn’t any strife. 

“Is it Sakusa-san?” 

Atsumu jolts so violently in his chair he nearly falls off. His head snaps up to meet Shouyou’s expression – unbearably soft and understanding – and his mouth gapes open and closed like a fish. An articulate gargle bubbles out of his throat, and anything resembling actual words are halted by the sudden creak of door hinges.

“Why’s Tsum-Tsum here?” Bokuto yawns as he slouches out from the door that leads to the sleeping area. He’s shirtless, just in his underwear, and is scratching at his stomach absently. Atsumu glowers in annoyance – at least he and Shouyou are wearing pyjamas. 

“We’re having a priva-“ he starts to say, irritated, when Shouyou cuts him off.

“Atsumu-san’s just realised he likes Sakusa-san,” Shouyou says simply, as though announcing the weather.

 _“Ahh,”_ Bokuto nods sagely, standing up straight and nodding his head, as though this was a perfectly normal thing to hear and not monumental in any way.

 _“Ahh?”_ Atsumu protests, indignantly, “what do ya mean _‘ahh?’”_

“We were wondering when you were going to notice,” Bokuto shrugs, and Atsumu gawps at him. 

_“'Scuse me?”_ He splutters, and whips his gaze around to Shouyou, who bobs his head at him in confirmation.

“How did you two notice before _I_ did?” Atsumu blurts out, too offended by how this huge problem in his life was apparently just common knowledge to reign himself in. Denial was left behind in favour of countering the betrayal coiling up hot in his gut instead. 

“Most people do,” Shouyou says, his voice oddly soft, and Atsumu squints at the melancholy edge to his smile. 

_Of course_ , he thinks, as realisation dawns. You’d have to be half blind not to notice the hearts in Tobio and Shouyou’s eyes back in high school – Atsumu himself had noticed after only two games against them. So of course other people noticed. He just forgot the same rule would apply to himself.

(He thinks of ‘Samu, and how his twin had yet to say anything, and gives thanks for small mercies that at least someone in his life was ignorant to his suffering.)

“Is this the intervention?” Bokuto pipes up, suddenly chipper. Atsumu leans back a little at the glint in those golden eyes, the legs of his chair tipping up.

 _“No,”_ he grinds out. “I don’t want _help_ , I want to know how to _stop it_.” 

“Do you?” Shouyou asks, surprised, and Atsumu lets the legs of his chair drop back down to the floor. 

“Having… different feelings for a teammate is a little awkward, Shouyou-kun,” he points out bitterly, hunching his shoulders.

“Doesn’t have to be,” Shouyou shrugs, and Bokuto nods along with enthusiastic thumbs up.

“Look,” Atsumu sighs out, in deep grievance. _“You,”_ he points at Bokuto, “weren’t even on the same team anymore when you hooked up with your boyfriend, and _you,”_ he swivels his index finger to Shouyou, “live in a happy fantasy dimension where true love actually exists.”

“Me and Kageyama got together in high school though,” Shouyou points out, tactfully ignoring Bokuto mumbling _‘me and Akaashi are in true love too…’_ in the background. “So _we_ were on the same team still. Isn’t that why you came over here?”

“No…” Atsumu says slowly, as he feels the world tilt a little on its axis. “I came over here because I thought you had the same problem… what do you mean you and Tobio-kun were together in high school. Didn’t that happen after you guys graduated?”

Shouyou frowns at him. “Atsumu-san you were there when it happened.”

Atsumu frowns deeply, perplexed, and thinks back. 

“At yer _wedding?”_ He asks at last, voice going high in disbelief. “Ya mean you literally eloped?”

It was really was a ridiculous fairytale. Separated for years, meeting in a fated game… only for Shouyou to blurt out a proposal after the match and Tobio, against all odds, accepting. The wedding had been a month later. Atsumu had attended but didn’t remember much of it – he’d been spectacularly drunk. Shouyou and Tobio had only been together for a month? Who just got engaged and then _married_ after no dating whatsoever?

Shouyou looks torn between staring at him uncomprehendingly and extreme amusement. “No,” he says, voice shaking, “after the game at our second Spring Nationals.”

The one where they’d won, he and 'Samu, Atsumu clocks - the one where they’d gotten their revenge on Karasuno. “After that?” He bleats, staring off into the middle distance. He can vaguely remember Shouyou and Tobio wrapped around each other in the middle of the court, faces hidden in their defeat, but mostly his memories are full of smug, joyful victory. “All this time?”

“Do you really want to just ignore it?” Shouyou asks him, breaking him out of his reverie. 

Bokuto leans in close, arms folded sagely, so he can speak almost directly into Atsumu’s ear. “I think you should just suck it up and do something about it,” he says, and Atsumu shoves at him irritably. “It’s not like Omi hasn’t noticed you never say anything when he doesn’t go for the receive!”

“I say something!” Atsumu argues, even though he knows it’s not true, and both of his teammates look at him disbelievingly. He’s just about to lapse into another sulk when he catches sight of Hinata’s hand, curled into a fist that he’s propping his chin on. The glint of his wedding ring glitters in the dim lighting, and he pouts down at the carpet. 

“We wouldn’t encourage you if we thought you weren’t going to get your happy ending too, Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto says, his exuberant words at odds with his oddly serious tone.   
  
“I have an idea,” Shouyou offers, letting his hands drop to the tabletop to splay across it in his excitement. 

Atsumu sighs huffily, gives the carpet fibres one more stab with his eyes before raising his head sullenly. “What is it then?” He relents, miserably.

If all of this is going to stop, it might as well stop with the stupid fantasies only taking place in his subconscious, he supposes.

Shouyou grins, eyes glinting, and leans in.

* * *

“Shouyou-kun… what is this?”  
  
“It’s a hankie!”  
  
Atsumu stares at the square of fabric in his teammate’s hand, then raises his eyes to glower, unimpressed, at the bouncing spiker. “I ain’t using a fucking hankie.”  
  
“You have to _woo_ him,” Shouyou insists, leaning in close and waving the handkerchief.   
  
They’re standing in the changing rooms of the local stadium, fresh from their recent win. Most of their teammates are already in the process of finishing up to head out for celebrations – led by Bokuto who was hooting up a storm. Thankfully, Kiyoomi was still present but distant, huddled in his corner as usual, trying to get changed without anyone slapping their hands on his bare back.  
  
“Did you _woo_ Tobio-kun?” Atsumu hisses back as pulls on a fresh shirt. Shouyou is, annoyingly, already changed.  
  
“Kageyama is easily swayed by endless volleyball and yoghurt,” Shouyou says cheerfully. “And I asked him! This morning! He said Ushijima-san said that Sakusa-san appreciates good hand hygiene.”  
  
“I know that,” Atsumu says slowly, after taking a pause to follow that train of people. “ _Everyone_ knows that.”  
  
“And Kageyama also said Ushijima-san appreciates Sakusa-san’s use of a personal hankie,” Shouyou continues, undeterred. “You need an opening right? Look like more than just a teammate, appeal to his interests!”  
  
“You had time to gossip with your husband this morning?” Atsumu mutters darkly, but he reaches out to snatch away the handkerchief regardless. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Kiyoomi sloping off to the toilets. Probably to wash his hands again before they’re due to leave.   
  
Shouyou makes a little shooing motion at him, eyes sparkling, and Atsumu rolls his own eyes to the ceiling, before trudging off after Kiyoomi.   
  
This is ridiculous.  
  
But… he had to admit Kiyoomi’s playing today had set his blood on fire. Normally happy to let Shouyou and their libero handle the serve receives, today Kiyoomi had _hustled._ Something about the other team’s players' spins on the ball. Regardless, there had been plenty of spectacular digs, and good receives were rewarded with good sets. And there was just something extra satisfying about watching his spiker’s attack spin away into the stadium, unable to be bumped.   
  
The match had left him feeling warm and buzzing, and it wasn’t just the victory popping in his veins. Atsumu stuffs the handkerchief in his pocket and slips into the washroom, hooded eyes landing on Kiyoomi. The spiker is, as expected, washing his hands methodically, and he raises deep, dark eyes to regard him curiously.   
  
“Good game today, Omi-kun,” Atsumu lilts, strolling over to a free sink. He can’t remember how many minutes he’s supposed to wash his hands for, so he settles for a quick scrub and rinse. He has no intention of drying out his hands with cheap soap – it would ruin his setting if his skin cracked.   
  
“Hmm, you too. That last set was decent.”  
  
“All my sets are good,” Atsumu shoots back, though as he straightens there’s a smirk on Kiyoomi’s lips, a mischievous twinkle in a dark eye, and he finds his stomach flopping hopelessly. Oh this truly was ridiculous.  
  
Maintaining eye contact, he slips the handkerchief Shouyou had given him out of his pocket and wipes his hands dry. It’s not that bad actually, if still a little over-the-top. Makes a nice change from paper towels at least, although he usually just pats his hands dry on his clothes. Finished, he stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket and makes a show of opening the washroom door, holding it open for Kiyoomi to exit first.  
  
“Did you just scrunch that hankie into your pocket like a tissue?” Kiyoomi asks instead, the smile and the twinkle all gone.   
  
“Err…”  
  
“What are you, an animal?” Kiyoomi tuts, swooping through the door like a bat, shuffling off without looking back over his shoulder. “You’ll get your pocket wet.”  
  
Atsumu lets the door slam closed and kicks a sink for good measure.   
  


* * *

  
Atsumu flings himself into the free seat on the bus next to Shouyou before Bokuto can claim it, sulking openly.  
  
Shouyou blinks at him, waves an apology at Tomas who he was speaking to beforehand, before focusing his attention on him. “Didn’t work, huh?”  
  
“Your source is wrong,” Atsumu grumbles, tucking his chin against his sternum as he slumps down in his seat.  
  
“I’ll ask again…” Shouyou says thoughtfully, rifling around in his pocket for his phone.  
  
“Hey, hey! Tsum-Tsum!”   
  
Atsumu tilts his head back to look up at where Bokuto was hanging over the back of his headrest, having taken the seat behind. He grunts his acknowledgement as the sound of Shouyou’s texting floats into the air.   
  
“How’d it go?” Bokuto asks, for once keeping his voice suitably low.  
  
“I’m an animal,” Atsumu grouches back.   
  
“… Worse things to be called, I suppose,” Bokuto muses.  
  
“Kageyama says did you fold it properly?” Shouyou pipes up then, before Atsumu can wallow even further.   
  
“I put it in my pocket!”  
  
“I think you have to keep the wet stuff inside though,” Bokuto says from above. “Seen Omi do that a lot, actually.”  
  
“Thanks for the tip, Bokkun,” Atsumu says moodily.   
  
Shouyou’s phone beeps again. “He says he’s going to ask Komori-san for advice too.”  
  
“Why does Tobio-kun have an advice network?” Atsumu wonders, baffled.   
  
But any reply is drowned out by Meian announcing their plans for the evening – a quick return to the hotel, than to a pre-booked restaurant to celebrate. The cheers in the bus raise in a cacophony, Shouyou and Bokuto both joining in with the whoops and hollers. Atsumu drags himself up to sit in his seat properly, feeling some of his bad mood lift a little. He joins in half-heartedly, and lets his gaze sweep over the rows of seats.  
  
Across the aisle, Kiyoomi catches his eye and ticks his eyebrows up at him. His customary face mask is back in place, but even so, his expression is clear. _‘Too noisy, right?’_  
  
Atsumu lets a smirk tug the corner of his mouth up and tilts in his head in acknowledgement, as the rest of the heaviness in his stomach lifts away.   
  
The ride back to the hotel remains noisy, bright and cheery, and Atsumu allows himself to get uplifted by the jubilance because they did _win_ , after all. Besides, Shouyou is checking his phone plenty, so perhaps Tobio will come through the second time around.   
  
“Shouyou-kun… what it this?” Atsumu asks, with a creeping feeling of déjà vu as he stands in the doorway to his hotel room, a mere hour later.  
  
Shouyou thrusts what looks like a paint roller in his face. “It’s a lint roller!” He says happily.  
  
“It looks... weird.”  
  
“Does it? It’s the only one they had at the store…”  
  
“When did you have time to- nevermind. Is this Tobio-kun’s latest result from the gossip mill?”  
  
“Gossip?” Shouyou blinks, before he shakes himself and forces the lint roller into Atsumu’s hand. “Komori-san said Sakusa-san uses these all the time!”  
  
Atsumu squints at the thing in his hand. Well, at least he couldn’t fuck this up like the correct way to store a hankie. All he has to do is run over it his clothes. “I... see.”  
  
“Anyway, hurry up or we’re gonna be late!” Shouyou waves his hands at him, shooing him back through the door. “Use that and try to say something! Good luck!”  
  
“Say something? Say what?” Atsumu calls down the hall, aghast, but Shouyou is already demonstrating his speed, moving swiftly down the corridor to disappear back into his own room to finish getting ready for the evening’s festivities.   
  
Grumbling, Atsumu slopes back into his room and nudges the door closed with his elbow. He’d already gotten changed – just a nice shirt and jeans, nothing particularly fancy. Celebratory dinners tended to get rowdy anyway. He pads back up to the living area and stands there, flicking his gaze between the lint roller and his clothes.  
  
It’s a simple ice breaker, he supposes, if there was actually anything for him to remove from his clothing.  
  
“Was that Hinata?” Kiyoomi’s voice sounds as he moves into the room, the door to the bedroom swinging shut. He already looks immaculate – simple outfit, mask in place, and a sheen to his hair that said it was freshly washed.  
  
(It both infuriates and mesmerises him that Kiyoomi can simply run a comb through his hair and achieve those waves. Atsumu had to go through a whole tub of hair product to achieve that look.)  
  
“Uhh… yeah. He said we’re going to be late,” Atsumu forces out through his suddenly parched throat at the sight of his teammate in something other than pyjamas or uniform. _Ridiculous, ridiculous._  
  
“Oh. Let’s get going then.”  
  
“One sec!” Atsumu announces, far too loudly for the small distance between them. Kiyoomi’s brow furrows irritably, and Atsumu takes his chance to run the paint-roller-come-lint-remover over his person, making a show of covering every square inch. It achieves exactly nothing. There’s nothing on the roller except small blobs of black fuzz, and Atsumu stands there, hoping he doesn’t, in fact, look absolutely fucking ridiculous.  
  
“Good idea,” Kiyoomi intones, nodding.   
  
A thrill zips up Atsumu’s spine at the approval. “Here ya go then, Omi-Omi,” he says with his best smile, ripping off the used sheet on the roller and offering the spiker the handle.   
  
Kiyoomi raises a hand. “I have my own.”  
  
Atsumu watches, entranced, as the spiker slouches back into the bedroom, and returns swiftly with his own lint roller. It’s another paint roller model, except it actually has Kiyoomi’s name written on the handle in neat, blocky kanji.  
  
“Well okay then,” Atsumu says, unsure whether this was a positive step forward or not, as he plonks his own lint roller down on the table.   
  
Kiyoomi makes quick, neat work of rolling his clothes, fast and efficient, and is soon making it towards the door before Atsumu can reach it and open it first. He does hold it open though, and Atsumu’s mood improves a little bit.  
  
The dinner is loud and noisy and actually rather fun, once Atsumu let himself get into it. Once or twice he spies Kiyoomi’s eyes crinkling up happily above his mask, despite the sheer number of people. The sight warms him even more than the alcohol he’s drinking does – until Bokuto slings an arm around his neck and hollers, “don’t worry Tsum-Tsum, we’ll get you your fairytale!” Straight into his ear.  
  
Fortunately he’s saved by Barnes, who leans over and pulls the exuberant spiker away, leaving Atsumu free to gasp air back into his lungs and feel his cheeks burn at Kiyoomi’s piteous stare from across the table.  
  
“I’ll buy you some mouthwash,” Bokuto promises him tipsily, no longer reaching for him, thanks to Barnes’s steady hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Oh, good idea, Bokuto-san!” Shouyou bellows from further down, and Atsumu thunks his head against the table as both of his useless wingmen start hollering at each other.   
  
The next morning, the ache in his head (mild, because Meian wouldn’t let any of them get drunk enough for a full hangover) only multiplies at the insistent banging on the hotel room door.

Atsumu stares up at the ceiling, then over at Kiyoomi, still lying like he was in a coffin, and sighs deeply. His teammate isn’t going to rouse at anything other than his alarm clock, and Atsumu doesn’t even know if he set the thing before they both crashed into bed last night. Irritably, he flings himself from the covers, and shuffles to the door, squinting against any and all light sources.  
  
“Bokkun, the fuck do ya-“ he starts, when he opens the door to be met with an entirely too awake and perky Bokuto.  
  
“I brought you mouthwash,” Bokuto says, miraculously not loud for once. He produces a bottle of exactly that. “I shared a room with Omi plenty of times. I know he gargles this stuff every time he brushes his teeth. Dunno what flavour he likes, so I got a fruity one! Seemed more eye catching than just mint.”  
  
“Oh,” Atsumu mumbles, reaching for the bottle, suddenly thrown by the thoughtfulness. And how Bokuto had remembered his seemingly random promise from the evening before. “Thanks?”  
  
Bokuto grins widely and pats his shoulder, hard enough to shake him with the force of it. “Can’t let Kageyama have all the good tips!” He enthuses, smacking his hand against Atsumu one more time, before trotting off back down the corridor.  
  
Atsumu watches him go, before turning his gaze back down to the bottle in his hands.   
  
It reminds him, oddly, of Kita. How his old captain prioritised and held self-care so dear. He’s no stranger to it himself, these days. He eats well, he sleeps well (annoying dreams not withstanding), he practices well. But Kiyoomi takes all of that and more to next level, and maybe he should too.  
  
It’s just not brushing one’s teeth, it’s complete oral hygiene.   
  
He shudders at the thought, and at the fuzzy feel of the surface of his teeth and hurries to the room’s bathroom, eager to use the mouthwash for its intended purpose rather than just to woo.

Over the next few days, more and more habits seem to seep into his life.  
  
He makes sure to use the ridiculous hankie to dry his hands, and ensures it’s folded correctly. He gargles mouthwash morning and night. He wipes down surfaces if there’s a packet of anti-bacterial wipes to hand. He keeps a mask handy if they’re ever in a particularly crowded place, though he can never bring himself to wear it.   
  
Shouyou gives him recipes for all sorts of healthy foods, to build out his robust diet. Bokuto gives him tips from Akaashi’s advice on maintaining a stable mindset before and after games. Tobio occasionally makes Shouyou’s phone ping, with whatever new tidbit he’d learned from other players Kiyoomi had been in contact with.  
  
It doesn’t really achieve anything major. There’s no obvious shift. But, bit-by-bit, Atsumu notices Kiyoomi’s gaze on him just a little bit more. Just lingering a little bit longer.  
  
Some of the things he does he feels are a bit ridiculous. The wiping down achieves little that he can see. The lint roller still feels entirely unnecessary.  
  
But others - the mouthwash, the good food, the damn hankie, if he’s totally honest in absolute secret, actually start making him feel better.  
  
He spits his mouthful of fruity wash into the sink, dries his hands on his handkerchief, and turns, in another hotel room in another city, to find Kiyoomi, staring back at him from the depths of the room, eyes bright despite their deep colour, and feels his stomach flip.   
  
True love isn’t real, no matter how much Shouyou and Tobio make it seem like it could be, but attraction certainly is. And these days, the gap is starting to feel a little less wide. 

* * *

The tipping point finally comes after they lose a home game.  
  
It’s not a major loss – they’re not out of the league, and their chances of taking the championship that year remain high. But a loss is a loss. And to any competitive player, it always feels nothing short of terrible.  
  
Everyone in the team has their own way of dealing with it. Some of them slope off alone, others sneak away in pairs or in groups, seeking solace in each other’s misery.   
  
Atsumu watches as Bokuto slips off with his phone pressed to his ear, his expression oddly calm in comparison to how it had twisted when the final whistle blew. He doesn’t need to check to know it’s Akaashi on the other end of the line.  
  
Shouyou hangs around longer than most of the team, quiet and deep in thought, before he too, springs off. There’s no bus to clamber onto, so he’s free, like everyone else, to do as he pleases, and Atsumu can’t help but be nosy. He follows a few paces behind, as Shouyou leaves the changing room, the stadium, and eventually emerges outside to meet with someone else.  
  
Entirely unsurprisingly, it’s Tobio, who seems to be free that day and does nothing more than stoop to press a kiss to Shouyou’s temple, and slot their hands together.

Atsumu doesn’t know what happens after that, because he turns away, feeling as though he’s intruding.

Turned back towards the stadium, he’s faced with the only other player who hadn’t already left.  
  
Kiyoomi stands here, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t have a face mask on.   
  
“Help me with my serve receives,” he requests. No, demands. Blunt as ever, even in defeat.  
  
Atsumu watches him, how those dark eyes aren’t sorrowful but thoughtful, and nods. “Sure.”  
  
“Hinata receives more than me,” Kiyoomi says, into the quiet of the Black Jackals' private gym.   
  
Atsumu tilts his head where he’s winching up the net. “He’s supposed to. He’s the opposite,” he says simply, and watches as Kiyoomi pulls along a ball cart.   
  
“In general,” Kiyoomi elaborates, and rounds to the other side of the net, getting into position.  
  
“Can’t say I’ve noticed,” Atsumu deflects, as the net settles into place. He heads for the ball cart.  
  
“Yes you have. You just don’t say anything,” Kiyoomi fires back, and Atsumu spins a ball between his palms.  
  
“Maybe I don’t need to, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu replies, and throws the ball into the air.  
  
It was Kiyoomi’s receive that went out, as the final whistle sounded.   
  
And more of them do, either from tiredness, or bad positioning, or sheer luck, as Atsumu tosses ball after ball into the air, changing his tactic and technique as he goes. Until the sky is black through the windows and there are no more balls in the cart, even after multiple refills.   
  
“Enough,” Atsumu says, as the last ball annoyingly shoots into the air in a perfect arc. If he were on the same side as Kiyoomi right now, he’d be smiling. There were so many things he could do with a receive that beautiful. “We’re gonna pull somethin'.”  
  
“Fine,” Kiyoomi acquiesces after a moment, and for a long time it’s just silence, as the two of them collect the scattered balls and take down the net.  
  
When the rest of the equipment is stored and everything cleaned to Kiyoomi’s meticulous satisfaction, the two of them stand, side by side, washing their hands by the sinks in the washroom. 

“You’ve been more diligent lately,” Kiyoomi notes, as Atsumu rinses off the suds and dries his hands with the handkerchief from Shouyou and dutifully folds it – damp side in – and slips it back into his pocket.  
  
“I was taking notes from you,” Atsumu says, and holds the door open for Kiyoomi to go through first.  
  
Dark eyes watch him curiously as the spiker heads through the doorway, and as Atsumu follows, and then as pair of them stand in the middle of the gym’s spacious hallways.   
  
“Let’s get dinner,” Atsumu blurts into silence. “I know a place.”  
  
(Courtesy of Tobio, who had texted him personally earlier – with a recommendation for the restaurant he and Shouyou had just been to, and a list of several healthy dishes. Atsumu had upgraded his name in his phone to ‘Volleyball Google’ because apparently the younger man was just a wealth of information these days.)  
  
“It’s late,” Kiyoomi says, cocking his head at him.  
  
“I know. I’m starvin’. Let’s get dinner,” Atsumu repeats, and his hands curl into fists in his pockets. The folded handkerchief brushes against his knuckles.  
  
Kiyoomi shifts his weight from foot to foot as he considers. “As teammates?” He questions. Straight to the point, as always.  
  
Atsumu lets some of the tension drain from his body and a smile curl at the corner of his mouth. “Nah. Not as teammates.”  
  
They’re not friends. They don’t hang out outside of games, and their communication off the court is kept strictly to volleyball. They don’t seek each other’s company outside of the court.  
  
But Atsumu cannot deny he would like that to change. He just… he likes Kiyoomi. He likes the way he’s dedicated to the sport, even if he’s infuriating about it sometimes. He likes the way he works on his receives even if he can’t be bothered to hustle for them sometimes. He likes the way he spikes weirdly with his stupid floppy wrists and turns his perfect sets into satisfying points. He likes his honesty. His hair – wavy in a way Atsumu can only achieve with copious amounts of product – and its sheen. His eyes. His build.   
  
He thinks of his dreams, and how Shouyou skips off into his fairytale love life one minute and then wrecks Tobio’s day the next by snatching the Jackals the win over the Adlers. At how maybe it’s possible to be more than one thing to someone.  
  
They’re not friends, and right now, he doesn’t want them to be teammates. They can be teammates again tomorrow.   
  
Kiyoomi hums to himself, before he straightens out of his hunch, and lets a matching smile of his own spread across his face. “Fine,” he agrees, and then spins on his heel to walk down the hallway. “Bring some of that mouthwash you use. I like the taste.”  
  
The implication of the sentence sends Atsumu’s smile splitting into a grin and he scampers forward to stroll alongside his spiker. “As you wish, Omi-kun,” he lilts, and closes a victorious fist over the dry, folded handkerchief in his pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> it's occurred to me that this is my first hq fanfic where tobio doesn't get any lines. but at least he gets all the glory.
> 
> talk to me on twitter! @Emlee_J


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